


The Messenger Who Brings Good News

by primeideal



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, July Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert doesn't much care for newspapers. Courfeyrac doesn't much care for trying to find his friend in a restless city. One day, they find themselves working together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Messenger Who Brings Good News

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spiderfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/gifts).



The young man was well-dressed for a hot summer. Ignoring the stifling temperatures, he ran up and down the street, peering in windows and panting as he rounded corners. He froze up—the closest anyone could get to freezing for months—at the sight of the police officer he was about to bowl over.

“Your pardon,” he stammered, taking a moment to catch his breath.

Inspector Javert of the Paris police was not inclined to grant pardon, certainly not for young elements who were blustering about with such an excitable air. Whatever the runner's errand was, it deserved a straightforward approach—or, just as likely, to be abandoned entirely. “May I help you?”

“I...” He looked about, and Javert kept his head still while his eyes carried on the same scanning motions. Perhaps his co-conspirators were getting away? But everyone else in sight carried on, their hustles timed to get them home as quickly as possible while avoiding any extra sweat. “Perhaps you can. I am looking for my friend, that is all. I want to make sure he is well.”

“Has he been ill? Perhaps he ought to get out of the sun. Too much heat is never advisable.” Javert gave much the same advice in excesses of cold, of wind, of precipitation; they all brought on their adverse effects. What people were in clement weather, he could not be sure.

“That is an excellent idea,” the youth smiled. “In fact, I have put much the same proposition to him. My father has family outside the city,” he muttered, turning away, “perhaps some country air would do him good.”

“That is thoughtful of you. A dutiful friendship.”

“Thank you.”

“But you mean to tell me that you have no idea where, exactly, he has gotten to?”

“Unfortunately, no. I—believe he has just gotten off work, but—some of his co-workers have been...disagreeable. Hence my rush. I would hate to see him be deterred by needless arguments.”

“Allow me to accompany you,” Javert volunteered. “There should be no need of trouble.”

The young man nodded. “Thank you. Today he was supposed to be meeting some German fellow.” At Javert's expression, he went on, “A translator, you see, who ships him papers. Old articles, all out of date.”

“And what does he do with those?”

“Translate them! For the curious readers, but they're not even new enough to be newspapers. Just, curiosities, for anyone interested in German life. Travel can be expensive, these days.”

“Newspapers.” Javert followed him down a broad street, crossing to the shadier side of the road. “Are there not enough newspapers in France, to begin with?”

“I couldn't possibly say.”

“Is that so.”

“Come, now, surely you must read some newspapers? Where else would we learn of all the new ordinances?”

“In the office.”

“And for those aristocrats who—do not need to work?”

“They might be—”

But Javert was spared the necessity of constructing some alternative when his companion froze in his tracks. “I say, that is the wrong street entirely. Come along, this way.”

“Barely more than an alley,” Javert noted. “Are you sure—”

He glanced quickly down the street, then shook his head. “There seems liable to be a—disturbance, there. I would not want my friend to be caught up in that.”

“Are you certain you can find him?”

“Entirely,” he said, plunging into the narrow alley, with Javert trailing reluctantly in his wake.

“Do you, also, read the newspapers?” Javert asked, trying to make out the noise drifting from a parallel street.

“Not all of them.”

“Oho?”

“As you said,” he paused to flash a smile, “there are far too many to keep up with.”

“There are worse problems to concern yourself with.”

“Oh, I quite agree. They have managed to employ even my friend, and surely that is for the best—given the number of people out of work.”

“There are things worth reading about—the goings and comings of the kings—”

“How fortunate that there is such a market for history books.”

“Excuse me?”

They had come to a busy corner, and the young man turned towards a small crowd forming outside an office door. “One moment. Prouvaire? Prouvaire, is that you?”

Another young man, clutching a piece of paper in his hand, turned at the noise. “Courfeyrac?”

“Very good, then,” said Javert, “you have found your friend, I shall be on my way—”

“No, he's not,” said Courfeyrac. “That is, yes, he is, er, go, take your leave...”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Thank you. My apologies. Come along, Prouvaire.”

“And what is that paper you are holding?”

“Ah, his poetry!” Courfeyrac immediately replied.

“What?” Prouvaire stammered.

“Your _poetry_ ,” Courfeyrac hissed, “that you were so kind as to bring to work today. Having even read it in the original Hebrew!” He clutched the page, shielding it from Javert's view. “Such a rare talent you have, and such a pity that so few can understand it.”

“Perhaps a demonstration is in order?” Javert volunteered.

Prouvaire quickly glanced from Javert to Courfeyrac, sweating with more than heat, to the crowd forming beyond them, and then back. Immediately, he rattled off several verses.

“All right, very well,” Javert cut him off, after the first wave of pleasant incomprehensibility had rolled over him with as little effect as his weekly worship usually produced. “Off with you.”

“Is everything all right?” Prouvaire asked.

“You tell me,” Courfeyrac whispered, as they hustled away down a larger street. “Any sign of Marius?”

“None. This crowd is up in words, if not arms. Do you need help finding him?”

“I'll be all right,” said Courfeyrac.

“And he?”

“Anyone's guess.”

Prouvaire nodded, falling into step alongside him and handing him the paper. “ _Le National_ is going to keep publishing.”

“Very good. When the factory doors are locked, reporting for work can be as powerful as any strike.”

They reached Courfeyrac's apartment without further event, only to find Marius panting by the door. “Where've you been?” he called. “I waited, you weren't here.”

“Never mind,” sighed Courfeyrac, as Prouvaire waved his farewell. “Are you all right?”

“Very well! Only, I heard talk of newspapers closing? What is the plan?”

Courfeyrac paused. “Nothing that would affect you.”

“Aha,” said Marius. For a moment, the world seemed dizzying in front of him—at first glance, the small apartment keeping them out of the heat. At another, the wide continent with all its interwoven languages and peoples. Between these scales, what use was the discord in Paris, the uprising in France? “Well, no harm done. Let's get inside.”

And as for Javert, one detour was pointless labor enough for the day. He signed off duty at the appointed hour, reporting to his prefect that nothing unusual had happened. Mondays were only tedious if you let them be.


End file.
